Fragments of Worlds
by Kumon5
Summary: Various one-shots involving the characters of No Coincidence in these worlds: musical, book, wings, and combat.
1. Chapter 1

**No Longer the Victim**

Christine was afraid of many things- spiders, heights, death- her head sometimes when she tried to count the numerous other things she was scared of, like slippery doormats and suspiciously unlocked doors. Sometimes she was afraid of her own shadow, and more often even than that, her reflection.

She had heard from Meg that eyes were the windows to the soul, and she had seen her own bright blue eyes. They were sad, tired eyes, but from what she did not know. She did not feel tired, and went to her room later than midnight still restless and jittery.

Perhaps she was tired of living. Or was it that she was tired of her dark, underground environment and her practically involuntary marriage? Was she tired of the domestic work she had taken upon herself just to keep busy? Maybe she was tired of herself: her little, plain self with a quiet sadness and near-fearful meekness in the presence of her husband.

Erik had given her an ultimatum- a life with him, or the death of Raoul. He had been so angry that night, and so afraid, and so vulnerable that it broke her heart. She was not sure she could love again, or live, even when her- angel, husband, teacher, whatever he was- deserved so much to have someone to _live _with. He had survived for over thirty years without the slightest help from anyone, but that was not the same as truly _living_.

Even now, he was still only surviving. Christine was also afraid to look at his golden eyes, afraid of what she would see there. She was afraid of his weakness, of his strength, of his infinite generosity towards her. She was afraid because she had seen them before, and knew she would see in his eyes that he was only just surviving on her presence.

He never ate, drank, or slept, or so it seemed. He read or composed or sketched for hours on end, but she did not know what for, and he never seemed to notice her except for when he brought her meals, or the things she timidly requested from the world above. Yet, at times, when she passed him on the way to the kitchen, the sound or his pen or his organ would stop almost imperceptibly, and from this, Christine knew that he was very aware of her presence.

She was not happy, she knew. Part of the reason she feared her reflection was because she saw that her mouth now turned down at the corners. It looked almost like Mme. Giry's perpetual frown. It was this strange, unofficial, involuntary, captive marriage that made her frown.

Erik was a mystery to her. She knew her angel, her teacher, but not this recluse, this person who had practically forced her to marry him. _I am married to a stranger, and I know nothing of him except his genius, his temper, and his appearance. _Perhaps one day she would know him, but that was far away, was it not? Now, she was too afraid to know him.

Erik was also plain and understandable to her. He had so much love to give, and she had none to offer that she knew of. He tried so hard to please her, and could not. No, that had ended when she had screamed at him to get out and leave her alone when he had entered her room after Raoul had left. He had left the room with his typical cold silence, and closed the door behind him. She had stirred after a minute of stunned silence, amazed that he had indeed left her alone without complaint, and approached the door.

The floor had been wet under her slipper-clad foot. She had looked down, expecting (and afraid of) another view of the many tears Erik had shed. The fluid she had dipped her fingers into had not been saltwater and clear, but thick and dark and sticky. He was understood because she knew how he coped with the pain of her presence and her subsequent fear.

Raoul had left. He had left, and then she was in Erik's cold house, weeping over the warm blood on the stone floor. She had cried for a long while, for Raoul and his false love, for he had left her. She had cried for herself and the terrible, long existence ahead of her, for Erik would not let her die. She had cried for Erik, too, for his pain and obsession and love that she could not bring herself to return or spurn.

Now, however, she was simply tired and afraid. There were no more tears left in her to shed, for she was quite sure now that she was tired of crying.

"Erik." She said his name, alone in her room. He had not told it to her directly, only rambled in a panicky sort of way about how he had made her cry. She had heard him outside her door, pacing, rambling, and nearly sobbing when she could not see him. He often spoke as such when he was too engrossed in music to notice her.

"Erik…" she said again, under her breath. He could have heard her. Who knew what abilities the seeping madness in his brain provided him? But indeed, his name was good. It was human, not the name of an angel, monster, or demon. She could accept his name.

Hesitating, she looked into her mirror again, probably the only mirror left in the house. She did not like what she saw, for she saw a gutless little girl with very little heart in her and even less of the person her father had raised her to be. That would have to change. If she was to be happy, she would have to try and accept all of Erik- his words and arts and love.

Her father had always said to her that love could only be happy as a mutual thing between people.

…

It was cold in Erik's house. It was always as such, for the many candles he kept lit provided little warmth, and he never lit the fireplace. He saw no reason to either. The mob had burned or ruined most of his music and sketches, and for months he had been replacing them from memory.

It was still unknown to him whether it was cold in Erik's heart as it was in his house. He was cold, he knew, for he did not feel the chill of his stone home, and the temperature of his skin was like that of the cold metal instruments he kept next to his coffin. So strange, then, that he felt warm when those instruments bit into his flesh, when he should feel only pain.

He loved his Christine very much, and it hurt to avoid her as he did now, but she had commanded that he leave her alone, so he obeyed, ever her slave. The only warmth in the house came from Christine, even if she was afraid of him, or angry with him, or simply sad. Christine made his frigid house that elusive thing called a home.

He had to pause when she entered the room, simply because he could sense her movement, and the great difference between her and her environment. She had taken it upon herself to do her own chores, but Erik dearly wished that she had not. He would do anything and everything for her, if only she would ask.

Perhaps he needed to do those things for her when she was asleep. Then she would know that he did not pretend that her existence mattered nothing to him. But…she had told him to leave her alone. To disobey his Christine, even for her own good, was a crime, one that he had committed repeatedly. It was a crime he had committed so that his heart would beat longer still, and because he needed her desperately, as he needed no other.

Was his heart cold, then? No, perhaps it was not. Christine warmed it and made it pained, heavy or light, but she proved its existence and fiery, terrible, possessive love for her every time she trod past on her soft, white feet.

Still, when she did not emerge from her room for even a few hours he had to remind himself that he could still feel, if only just a little. He locked the door to his room and slid his white sleeves up his bony arms, and cut into the softer part of his arm. He had to remind himself that his blood was warm, that he was a man, and that because Christine was with him, he could feel.

When the bleeding from the numerous shallow cuts stopped, he always cleaned and bandaged them, and rolled his sleeves down again. Christine could not know about his habit! Knowing would make her sad, so very sad that his heart would break in place of hers.

The cuts were to count as well. They were to count the weeks and months that Christine had been gone from him before she had agreed to stay. They were a calendar of his pain, so that he would never forget and let her leave.

She had not spoken since the night she had ordered him away. Her silence was a tangible thing, for it often extracted tears from him when he swore he would not cry because of another. He was afraid to break that silence with his true music, for fear of what it would unleash. Would she be furious, or hateful? Would she be afraid, as he hated? Would she be an apathetic stranger?

She was the victim in the situation, he knew. She had become the victim when he had refused to play that part any longer. She was the hurt one now because he was too selfish to let her go, and too frustrated with his own helplessness.

The cuts were his punishment, too, so that he would be weak and unable to hurt her for the loss of fluid. He replenished himself when she slept, by eating the foods he knew to be good for those with little blood in them, so that he could safely punish himself again, remind himself that he deserved nothing.

He was not her angel any longer. He knew that for sure. What was he, then? Was he an evil dragon, made and set on keeping her captive? That image certainly fit- only, the dragon was a much more handsome creature than he, and Christine was certainly more beautiful and virtuous than the fair maiden.

He pressed a key on the organ, wincing when the instrument created a sound too loud and blaring for the silent awkwardness of his house. Worse still, it echoed when he released the key. Perhaps he would use the piano today instead.

Or, perhaps he would approach Christine. _Yes, I should attend to her- she might be in want something. _So, instead of traversing to his music room to take out his frustration on the piano, he made his way across the room to Christine's door and knocked just loudly enough that she would hear. "Christine?"

To his surprise, she opened the door herself instead of verbally granting him entrance. She looked different than when he had last seen her, and just as surprised as he to find him at her door. For a moment, neither spoke, absorbing the moment. Erik swallowed hard, suddenly unable to speak. Damnable effects she had on him, especially when he had no idea what she was thinking. Thankfully, he did not have to speak.

"What is it?" she asked, "Is it time for lunch already?" She was radiant, and for a moment, he forgot what he had been about to say. Even if he had remembered, he would not have been able to say anything. His mouth had gone quite dry.

Then he stammered out a shaky "Do you need anything- anything at all?" Good heavens above, she looked as if she barely remembered who and what she was speaking to! Had she forgiven, or had she forgotten? He desperately hoped for the former.

He kept his gaze just over her shoulder, focused on the edge of her soft, curled locks. In the long pause that followed, they both avoided breathing. It seemed that breathing would only increase the tension, when in fact it only made them both reluctant to speak.

"I need to apologize."

…

Christine swallowed back the strong tea and grimaced. If her endeavors- to be a wife, or a love, or whatever it was Erik needed- succeeded, she would need to ask for something a little gentler on her taste buds.

Erik had been completely shocked, as she'd expected, but he had also recovered enough to sit her down on the couch and demand that she explain herself. In trying to delay so that she could think up the words for her explanation, she had requested tea. Unfortunately, there was no cream to weaken the strong, bitter flavor, and there was no sugar to feed her insatiable sweet tooth. She could have asked Erik for those ingredients as well, and she knew he would have provided her with them, but that would have taken far too long. Her apology and explanation was well worth missing a little cream and sugar.

Erik was watching her every move intently from the other side of the couch, his head angled just so that it appeared that he was gazing at the fire, but his eyes angled so that he could watch Christine out of the corner of his golden eye. He started, though, when she fixed him with a stare of her own and said, "Thank you very much for looking after me as you have."

"What? I have done nothing but-"

"Provide for me when I hunger, or thirst, or am in need; this is why I must apologize. I have done nothing in return." Erik's impulse was to argue away her apology. Why would she presume that she need give him anything more than her presence in the cave she was making into a home? Her work to clean and sometimes prepare her own afternoon snacks was more than enough.

"Christine, you have done more than enough!" he nearly pleaded. "You chose to be here. It is my duty to provide for you, and you must desist with that slavish behavior you call housework."

"What 'slavish behavior'?!" she burst suddenly, surprising herself with her own boldness. She set her cup down with enough force that the porcelain clinked sharply against the silver tea tray. A drop of the hot liquid splashed over onto her finger. "You have done practically everything for me-"

He stood suddenly, pulling her to her feet with him. His bony hands gripped her upper arms with such fervor that she was sure they would bruise. "Yes, Christine, for you! All I ever did for a decade was for you, to have you and keep you, so you would never run, never leave of your own will! And I am a selfish enough monster that I will never, ever let you go!" His visible face was twisted and flushed with intensity, and his eyes were molten with a passion she had never seen except for when she had sung for him on her first journey underground.

He was not angry. She was not afraid. She had decided not to be, and glared back at him. "If I am your wife, you will let me care for you," she declared, defiantly keeping her eyes on his. _I will not be afraid of his eyes any longer. I will not!_

"Care? I know not care. Care is something I have not received, and do not need." His voice was suddenly, frighteningly flat. "Care is what I intend to give- to you." He held her as if he had forgotten he was holding her at all, still as a statue.

Christine's eyes still burned into his, but he seemed to have forgotten he was looking at her as well as holding her. "Then care for me! Speak, sing, make me hate you, but I am exhausted of being sad and tired and- and- pitiful!" she shouted to his masked face. "And I cannot stop in my endless circle unless you _care _enough to help me break free and make us both happier than we are!"

This startled him into releasing, almost repelling her. He hurriedly stepped back, and she almost regretted her yelling- almost. His demeanor had shifted yet again, to the vulnerable, insecure, half-insane Erik that had not the ability to break her body, but her soul. He was retreating again, pacing and muttering and ignoring her. "Of course Erik cares, he cares more than his Christine knows- but he does not know how to treat her! She cannot be as other wives, she is _special_-"

Suddenly, he was just an inch from her face, blinking owlishly and looking for the entire world like a lost child. She swallowed back a gasp. "So what does his Christine wish for? Jewelry or outings?" Then he turned away just as quickly, talking to himself again.

It took a surprising amount of nerve for her next words, to answer him in a way that he might fully comprehend in his strange, half-mad state of coping. She took a steadying breath and steeled herself. "Erik. Christine wishes to have Erik back." He stopped in his pacing, frozen by her words. "Christine wishes for Erik to have her back, too."

In a heartbeat, she was swept up into the air, carried by arms like metal cables and giddy with virtual wings of her own. His joyous, unrestrained laughter was probably a first for both of them, and she loved it. Everything would be right, because he loved her and because she knew, for the first time (and quite for certain), that she could love him not only as her teacher and angel, but as her husband.


	2. Chapter 2: The Bet

The Bet

The tunnels under Los Angeles' more impoverished dwellings were full of bars. In these bars, men drank everything from milk to beer to hemlock. In these bars, men gambled, and so did Philippe, a young martial arts expert. His family had recently cut him off, so he had taken to making bets on his fighting skill- whether or not he could perform some physical feat, or defeat a few particular people. So far, he had never lost, and he intended to keep it so.

It had been a few months since he'd moved into his small apartment when he was approached by a certain brunette in the bar he frequented (but never bought from). He looked up at her from his seat in the corner of the cramped, rather smelly room. "May I help you?" She gave him a calculating look.

"Perhaps. I hear you've never lost one of your bets…or fights. You go by 'Jaguar.'" Her many curls bounced as she flicked her head at the opposite corner of the bar, where a black-hooded individual sat.

"Yes, and?" The girl's voice was soft and somewhat dangerous. Her multicolored eyes flicked over his build momentarily, assessing him.

"My associate and I wish to make a bet." Her eyes flicked downward for a moment. _She considers me dangerous? Smart girl. _However, she regained her boldness and looked him in the eyes. "You must take it before you hear it." Philippe smirked. This match would be easy- if the lackey was new and shy, the opponent probably had all the experience of a newborn.

Still, he had to give her credit for the conditions of the deal. "I'll take it."

"How much? Whatever you bet, we can top it." A red flag went up in Philippe's head. He would need to know what he was doing before he placed any wager on it.

"Depends what I'm doing." The girl's fingers curled inward, pressing her knuckles to the table. _So she was trying to trick me- this deal is for money, sorely needed money by the look of it. Her clothes are cheap imitations. _"Would you be so kind as to tell me?"

"You will fight my associate at the Ring, tomorrow night at exactly eight o'clock. I assume you've heard of that particular club?" He nodded, and she went on: "You will fight until one of you is unconscious. No weapons of any kind allowed." She paused, obviously wishing for a reaction. He only continued to stare steadily, blinking when it pleased him. She leaned forward, dark curls framing her face like a curtain.

"Stop trying to intimidate me. It's not going to work," he told her in a bluntly unimpressed voice. She went on as if he had not spoken.

"You _will not_ back out." Then she withdrew. "How much will you place?" His answer was immediate:

"I place a thousand." _I can afford that- I got paid today, after all. _It was true; his job as an attorney paid well, and he always had plenty to spend. There was no taking it back now, anyway.

"Done." And the brunette walked over to her 'associate's' table and left with the strangely dressed individual.

…

Christine tugged at Ciara's sleeve as the signal to leave the bar. She didn't like this 'Jaguar' person, but he had a reputation. If Ciara defeated him at the most famous club in the underground, it would attract more bets, more money, and therefore more food. They could not afford to live off of their emergency food for another week. As they left, she felt the blind, mute fighter draw a question mark on her palm. She wanted to know about Jaguar.

"He's taller and thicker than you, probably stronger. His hands have callouses from hitting something hard- perhaps he trains a lot. There was an ink stain on his shirt, just a little one, so he must have an office job. He can't bet a thousand without having a pretty lucrative career." Her frank analysis was what Ciara relied on to overcome her opponents. "Since he's already an expert martial artist, you'll have to be extremely careful."

Ciara tapped the left side of her nose. Christine raised an eyebrow even though her companion couldn't see it. "He smells nice? How? All I could smell in that place was beer and sweat." The blind girl placed a hand on her abdomen, just below her waist. This caused an incredulous, slightly pink expression on the brunette's part. "I cannot believe you just admitted to being attracted to a guy like that."

Their way of communicating was a very one-sided, casual sign language. Now Ciara sighed and lightly tapped the area just over her heart. _He raised her heart rate? _"I think you were just caught up in the anticipation. One meeting isn't love, and we certainly don't live in a fairytale!" Her voice was half bitter and half amused. "Try waiting until you officially meet him, okay?" Ciara did not gesture in return; she knew her friend was speaking from experience.

A seemingly kind, sweet young man named Raoul had met her in a fairly decent café- he had been working there, and after some very insistent asking, he had managed to take her out to 'his favorite restaurant.' There, in that dark back alley, he had tried to violate her. She still bore the scars of her scrapes against the pavement and bite marks where he had tried to keep her in place. Thankfully, she had escaped, but the whole encounter tended to mess with her view of romance.

With that last word of advice still ringing in the air, the two young women walked home in silence to their one-room flat.

It was several hours before Ciara could get to sleep. The smell of the Jaguar seemed to linger in her lungs and throat even after a thorough wash and brushing her teeth. It had burned itself into her mind, so that she could almost imagine his body heat and the shape of his face. It was as if she knew him already, even though he had yet to say a word to her.

When she finally did sleep, and wander into a land of light and color that she'd never known, she imagined that she was looking at Jaguar. Her eyes could see. But it was too soon before the sun rose and she woke to her alarm at exactly 5:00am.

When she blinked her blind eyes open, she did not remember what Jaguar looked like, but his smell would not leave her. It was beginning to get on her nerves.

…

The crowd was hushed in the Ring as they settled into their seats. The tension gathered between people's shoulders and in fists clenched around substantial amounts of bet money.

Philippe, however, was relaxed and quite steady as he prowled about, steps slow and measured. The murmuring crowds parted easily for him, as they knew he could strike out at any moment and be standing in a circle of broken bodies within seconds. He radiated danger like a nuclear plant.

He wanted his opponent to see it, too. Perhaps they (the contestant and the manager) would be intimidated. And they thought he was likely to back out? No, not likely at all.

He could see his victim coming his way now. The brunette from before was walking ahead of her into the stone arena. That in itself was unusual, but not unprecedented. Usually, the combatant would stride in first to rile the multitude into a shouting frenzy. He entered the arena as well, curious. Was there some special arrangement he had been unaware of? The whispers raised a notch in volume.

Christine could hardly stop herself from trembling. Here, should anything go wrong, one of her best friends could be killed. The whole place was eerily sterile, as if the janitors had done their best to wipe away the smell of death and blood. She heard Ciara behind her, the long, dark cloak swishing over the smooth granite. She would be completely covered, including her small, bony hands and bare feet. Jaguar didn't know how vulnerable she was.

She looked up. Ciara came to a stop just behind her, on her left. Their hands touched to enable communication behind her. The Jaguar was stalking towards them, looking menacing in stature and mildly interested. Had they done something against the customs of the Ring?

"Be ready to lose those thousand dollars," he said, confident and smooth. There were no scars on his visible body to show that he'd ever been wounded in his fights. "But since you're obviously so new to this game, kudos to you," he continued, throwing a wink towards the hooded figure. "I respect your courage." He held out his hand, ignoring Christine. _What a strange person, to wear such a concealing, billowy garment. You'd think it'd be a cumbrance to combat._

Christine squeezed her friend's hand tightly. If she shook that hand, her secret would be given away, and Jaguar could back out, as those were rights: one was allowed to forfeit if they had anything against hitting a woman.

The fight would begin as soon as the manager left the ring. Then everything was up to the referee and the combatants. One can imagine how very reluctant Christine was to leave.

Ciara's focus shifted to Christine as she slowly paced away from her, leaving her to fight for her life. Her companion and guide's footsteps were quiet audible; whoever had built this place had not designed it to be a place of bloodshed. It had been built to enhance sound quality and projection.

She had been told that the referee would watch the fight while walking around the Ring, and observe from as many angles as possible. She hoped that referees in the underground kept their rules and standards pristine, for she desperately needed the money that this bet would bring.

The underground clubs did not use bells, Christine found, as she hurried to get a view of the fight. To her surprise, though, neither Ciara nor Jaguar had moved.

Philippe observed his opponent, who seemed to have no definite shape, save that of a head, extremely narrow shoulders, and sleeves that would've reached the floor were it not for the person's slightly above average height. He took a step forward, and the murmuring of the crowds seemed more tense and suspicious than before. He looked around at the smooth stone walls and floor. There would be nothing to use but his bare hands.

So, being the decisive person that he was, he leapt forward, limbs tingling with the anticipation of impact. Unfortunately for his shaking, energized body, there was no impact.

Ciara went airborne and executed a front flip, landing with her back to Jaguar. The first cheer erupted from one person in the stands, then another, and soon the noise was deafening. A breath of wind ruffled her hood as Jaguar's fist brushed past her ear. His scent was intoxicating, and tinged with sweat from the building humidity and collective body heat in the huge arena, but she forced herself to focus and retaliated with a back kick.

Her kick was blocked from above, as she expected. He was good- but not as smart as she. Her lithe leg wrapped around his arm and shoulder, and with a twist and a great amount of overcoming inertia, she spun him so he cartwheeled with her motion and landed on his side. Then she wondered vaguely if he noticed that she was barefoot. It was a good thing she was not ticklish.

Philippe winced. He had nearly forgotten to exhale as he landed in order to keep from being completely winded. Who and what was this wiry human? His shoulder began to throb. It would probably bruise come morning. Through pain-blurred eyes, he saw his opponent simply standing as if nothing had happened. He pushed himself back to his feet, relatively undamaged. _It's time to kick it into full gear. No more play._

He circled this time, more cautious, and keeping his eyes open. The hooded fighter did not move. Perhaps if he attacked from the side… His hypothesis was quickly dashed to bits as the straight punch he aimed was deflected easily and twisted around so that the soft underside of his arm was exposed. That small, warm hand kept its grip and pulled him in closer, but he kicked at the little thing's feet. He could not afford damage to his neck or internal organs.

Ciara did not trip. She had practiced such maneuvers hundreds of times with Christine, so she did what she had trained to do. As Jaguar's foot knocked at the back of her ankle, she shifted her weight to her left and jumped, releasing his arm. It wasn't a perfect landing, but she ended where she wanted to be: just behind him and slightly to his side. Was he at all impressed with her skills? The audience certainly was- they roared again, beginning to chant for 'Cloak.'

She did not hear them, though. All her senses were trained on him. She adopted a firm, wide stance as he attacked again, with a barrage of kicks. Her feet never left their places, but he never got a solid blow it; they were all deflected and evaded. His breathing grew more labored. _He is used to overpowering those he fights, not outthinking them._

Meanwhile, Christine chewed her right index finger, worried. Yes, Ciara had done herself proud for a few moments, but all she was doing now was using a very passive strategy. She might wear him down, but only a knockout would bring them the money and assurance of safety. Her heartbeat thrummed in her chest, and she gripped the edge of the railing separating her from the arena. Minutes ticked by, and still, Ciara did not attack in return. The Jaguar's reflexes were slowing slightly, and the screams of the people around her had faded somewhat.

At last, a breakthrough. Philippe was halfway through his tenth spinning kick when he felt a sinewy ankle connect with his own. Then he was in the air again, tumbling and scrambling for purchase on anything- including the other combatant's cloak. He clawed at it, and it tore from the skinny body beneath him, and felt his fall being interrupted by a rough shove, so that he landed on his sore shoulder with the dark, opaque material covering his face. He almost didn't want to get up but for his curiosity. His shoulder felt almost sprained, and this time he really was winded.

Christine's eyes widened in horror as the only protection on her friend was ripped away to reveal her thin, toned figure wrapped in a tight black exercise outfit. The brunette's nails tried to dig their way into the mortar between the blocks of granite. The multitude seemed to gasp as one, then hoot and whistle. Ciara's red face could be seen even from the topmost benches. She ducked her head in shame. Maybe she should have gone for a t-shirt instead of a breathable crop top.

Philippe threw off the shroud-like article and turned his gaze to his mysterious rival. Her smooth skin was white, as white as snow, even if that sounded cliché in his mind. It was quite true. She was tall enough, and lithe as a civet cat with the power and grace of a tigress packed under that pale skin. His eyes travelled up her narrow, oval face and to her dark red eyes. _An albino. Light burns her…or was she simply trying to hide her identity?_

His question was never answered. She knelt by his head and caressed the side of his face. He still didn't want to get up. Her soft touch felt so much more relaxing than all the painful arm-twisting she had done earlier. His earlier frustration at being unable to hit her was melting away… She did not seem to be looking at him, but her face drew close to his. He could almost hear her breathe.

A sharp pain coursed through his head and he was unconscious in less than a second.

Christine and Ciara left as quietly as they could, taking their winnings from the referee, who did indeed declare that 'the little girl won.' This match would be sure to attract some welcome attention and business, if one could call it that. On the way out, they enlisted someone they recognized to carry the unconscious Jaguar to someplace safe.

They took a taxi to their residence in a victorious, near-giddy silence.

…

Philippe mumbled something incoherent and blinked the blurriness from his eyes as he sat up and looked about him. The room was one in a bar, the very bar where he'd made that reckless bet. A trickle of water attracted his attention. It was the bartender, filling an old-fashioned washbasin with warm water. "Don't bother. I can bathe myself, thank you."

The bartender (who'd only agreed to take care of the unconscious martial artist because of his debt to a friend) shrugged and said, "You might want a sling for that bad shoulder. Just sayin.'" He added a few drops of ointment to the water for accelerated healing. "And you definitely need to get a drink, mulled wine, preferably. I ain't got no tranquilizer, or what's it."

"No thanks," Philippe grumbled, wincing as the muscles that connected his back and shoulder twitched in pain. "I'll be leaving in a few minutes anyway. What time is it?" His temporary caretaker motioned at a digital clock on the wall. _6:00am._

"You sure got whipped last night, young man. My friend told me all about it- and the reason you're here is 'cause that _girl_ told my friend to get you here." This grabbed his attention. He swung his legs over the side of the lumpy spring mattress and rubbed the back of his head.

"Do you happen to know where a guy could get 'that girl's' number?"


End file.
